


all i ever wanted

by orphan_account



Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, Irish Actor RPF, Scottish Actor RPF, X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Guilt, M/M, Roommates, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-06
Updated: 2012-08-06
Packaged: 2017-11-11 13:06:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/478849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James has always had a vivid imagination.</p>
            </blockquote>





	all i ever wanted

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted here: http://hinodegiri.tumblr.com/post/28805924793
> 
> Inspired by the following GIF set: http://shercockled.tumblr.com/post/24013055099
> 
> May become part of a series in the future.

Ever since he was young, James has possessed what his grandfather called a frankly unnatural ability to entertain himself; unlike many other kids his age, who turned into the whining, impatient terrors of whatever household, restaurant, or supermarket they happened to be in if they weren’t adequately distracted by toys, television, video games or the like, James never complained of boredom, never fidgeted, never pestered. He could spend hours in his grandparents’ garden playing with sticks, stones, leaves, and flowers, which in his hands became knights, horses, Viking ships or aliens—in fact, he almost preferred these over proper toys, because they could be more than one thing at a time. His literarily-inclined grandmother liked to say that James had a brilliant imagination, the kind that built worlds and guided men to distant horizons, and after he entered school, James’s teachers agreed with her: “James has such a knack for visualization,” they would say. “He grasps abstract concepts so easily, and he’s so creative!”

Somehow, James doubts that either of them, his grandmother or his teachers, would have been so enthusiastic about his talent if they knew how he’d be putting it to use.

He’s lying on his bed, and it’s unseasonably warm despite the box fan whirring constantly at his window—even with the air conditioner rattling its best attempt at coolness through the vents, the temperature of their apartment tends to be tepid at best and stuffy at worst, and right now it’s somewhere in between. James’s glasses, which he really only needs for reading but wears all the time because he’s reading more often than not, rest neatly next to his pillow; his lamp is turned on low, making the whole room look like it’s filmed with orange-gold. Music is playing softly from the clock-radio by his bed—playing because he wants to drown out any noise he might inadvertently make, softly because if he turns it up too loud, his flatmates might suspect he’s up to something or worse, be annoyed with him. If James was clever in any way that counted, he would take to listening to loud music all the time, like Michael, if only to keep their suspicions low for when he actually needed the noise, but even if he could stand the racket, it’s not just a matter of masking his intentions. Mid-terms are drawing close and they’re all under an increased workload. It’s no trouble for James, who’s smart enough that even the university’s honor program is more of a diversion than a challenge for him, but he’s also conscientious enough that even the idea of distracting Tom, Benedict or Michael from their studies makes him feel like a terrible person. So he vows to be as quiet as he can and keeps the radio as soft as he feels comfortable with, and hopes for the best as he slowly, slowly strips down to his boxers and undershirt, slows his breathing, and allows his eyes to drift half-closed.

He imagines. It’s what he’s good at. The music fades into the same background-place as the box fan’s whir and the air conditioner’s rattle. In his imaginary room, it’s completely quiet, or at least as quiet as any apartment building like theirs, populated almost exclusively by students and recent graduates, can permit it to be. Benedict and Tom are out…somewhere, he’s not sure exactly, maybe Tom’s with that group of Americans he’s befriended and Benedict’s working on that Frankenstein production with the rest of his Drama class. It’s good enough. Not all details are equally important.

So. He’s alone. Alone in his room studying Physics, no, typing that paper he’s already finished on Macbeth, or editing it, whichever. He’s distracted, and the keyboard is loud enough that he doesn’t notice Michael standing on the threshold to his room until the man shifts and says _Hey_. James turns in his desk chair and his mouth dries, because Michael’s fresh from the shower, all damp hair and ginger beard-scruff and hard, toned muscles; he’s wearing sweatpants and that heather-gray wife-beater that somehow manages to draw more attention to his arms and torso than when he goes shirtless, which is way too fucking often for James’s peace of mind, but that’s reality, and this, this is different, better. So James’s mouth dries, but he still manages to say _Hey_ back with the right amount of casualness, and Michael lets himself into his room like always, smiling his stupidly-charming smile and settling on James’s bed like some kind of haughty, easygoing—cat? Dog? (James can’t figure out what kind of animal Michael most resembles; Tom is a greyhound and Benedict is an otter, and James has been likened to everything from a mouse to a three-toed sloth, but Michael is too canine to be feline and too feline to be canine and James doesn’t know how to classify him. A fox, maybe? But back in James’s hometown, foxes were considered pests, vermin, and he can’t associate Michael with that sort of creature even if it is the best match he’s found so far.)

 _Fuck_ . He needs to focus. Okay, so: Michael. On his bed, making small talk with James as James finishes up his paper. Maybe they’re bitching about their respective professors—yes, that’s good, because after Michael finishes ranting, he’ll say something like, _Trust me, kid, it’s true what they say about not trusting anyone over thirty_ , and James secretly loves the way Michael will call him _kid_ once in a blue moon even though he has to give him shit for it in front of the others, tell Michael that he doesn’t have the right to act like an old man just because he’s in his fourth year and James is in his second. But since this isn’t reality, the way Michael says _kid_ isn’t teasing but tender, and it’s just the two of them, so James can let himself blush and nod without replying.

At that, something in Michael’s eyes softens. Michael has fascinating eyes. Tom’s eyes are electric-green and Benedict’s are strikingly gray and James’s own eyes are an insistent blue behind his glasses, but Michael’s are somehow all three colors and none of them at the same time. They are, James reflects, liquid-hued, changing their shade according to what Michael wears and feels and probably also according to who’s looking. No matter which color they are at any given moment, they never vary in their ability to make James’s heart stutter and jump when they lock onto him; the feeling is so familiar that re-creating it involves more recollection than imagination. Michael motions to James then, brief and casual— _come here_ , the gesture says clearly, and its pull is just as strong as Michael’s gaze is. James rises from his chair and makes his way over to the older man, not too fast and not too slow (a hallmark of fantasy, that deliberate grace; if this were reality, he would trip over his own feet) and sits on the bed next to Michael, not too close and not too far away.

Michael briefly puts one big hand on the side of James’s face. James shivers, and all of a sudden, Michael has borne him down onto the bed. _I see how you look at me_ , says Michael, _and how you don’t, sometimes_.

“Michael,” whispers James, and pictures Michael rubbing their cheeks together, his scratchy with stubble, James’s smooth and over-warm, before he kisses the skin beneath the collar of James’s ratty T-shirt and breathes, _Show me how much you want me_. James imagines that the two fingers he pushes past his lips are Michael’s, and he puts them as far back in his mouth as he can, breathes heavily through his nose, and refuses to choke.

 _That’s it, James, get them wet for me… God, I’ve waited for this, want you so bad…_ The whine that tries to escape James makes him tremble. His free hand moves to the waistband of his boxers. Resisting the urge to rub harder than the situation demands, he focuses on sucking and swirling his tongue around the fingers in his mouth, and strokes his navel as lightly as he can, the barest brush of fingertips against skin. The ghost-touches are electric on his flesh; they travel down to his cock like a shooting pain, and James can feel himself going half-hard as fantasy-Michael whispers obscene promises in his ear: _I’ll touch you everywhere, get you so slick it won’t matter how tight you are, then I’m going to open you up and fuck you until you can’t remember anything but my name. You want that, James? You gonna scream for me?_ And then, because it feels right, James pushes his knees up, curls his toes into the bedspread, then reaches round and pinches the spot where the back of his thigh meets his ass. The sensation proves as satisfying as it is painful, and he jerks full-body to feel it.

Dizzy, gasping for air now, the sophomore removes his fingers from his mouth. He tugs his boxers down with his free hand until they’re twisted around his ankles. “ _Ah_ ,” he groans when the spit-slick digits brush his hole. They’re not _his_ fingers, not really: it’s all Michael in his head, crooning, _Easy now_ as he nudges at the ring of tight muscle, not breaching it, but rather attempting to acclimate James to the touch. A long interval of rubbing and prodding follows, then Michael mutters, _Relax, kid, I’ve got you_ , and pushes his index finger into the smaller boy’s body. James shudders and clenches around the intrusion.“Oh, oh, oh,” he breathes, gritting his teeth even as he tries to heed Michael, tries to relax and work past the burn. He crooks his finger in a desperate attempt to find the spot that will make everything feel better; failing, he slides it further in, up to the second knuckle. His legs are trembling.

 _What do you want_ ? queries Michael in his head, and James can’t answer, because James doesn’t _know_. He’s good at imagining, but he’s not good with his own body; he’s too deeply-entrenched in his head to fully understand what his flesh likes. Fast or slow? Brutal or gentle? He twists his finger to distract himself from the questions, tries to find a balance between thinking and feeling.

“Michael,” he rasps, “please, Michael,” and takes himself in hand. He envisions his flatmate’s long fingers, callused from so many sessions in the university’s metallurgy studios, and wonders how his big, rough palm might feel curled around him, and oh, that would be so nice, he thinks, cock drooling as he imagines the heavy pressure, the light chafe, the sweet pleasure-pain of it. Eyelashes fluttering against his cheek, he strokes hard in an attempt to emulate his reverie, hears Michael growl _Come for me_ in his ear. _Come on, James, come on, kid…_

James bites his lower lip hard, pretending it’s Michael doing so, and with a buck of his hips and a high, long whine, he obeys the command and comes hard and messy onto his hand and stomach. He lies there afterward, panting so hard he sounds like he’s having an asthma attack—and he’s had his share of asthma attacks, so he ought to know. He feels unmoored, no longer trapped in his mind or his body but adrift in some null space in between the two. Secretly, he almost likes this part of his fantasizing best, when his brain is quiet and his body is sated. He sighs heavily, happily, exhaustedly, ignoring the mess he’s made of himself, and truly relaxes for the first time.

It takes him a while to drift back to himself. Reality settles over him by inches and degrees. James hears the radio transition from one song to another, slowly becomes aware of the warm evening air on his sticky skin. The air conditioner rattles and the fan whirs, and he opens his eyes. His muscles feel loose and hot, like he’s run for miles—and in a way, he guesses he has. What is imagination but a means to run away from reality or run towards something he’ll never catch?

The thought makes James’s stomach clench with sadness and guilt. He swallows and pushes himself up. He knows he should shower, should brush his teeth, but he can’t bear even the possibility of running into Michael right now. Instead he wipes himself clean with his boxers and undershirt, changes into his pajamas, and crawls beneath his covers. It’s a good few minutes before he remembers to switch off his light, and it’s even longer before he can fall asleep; he spends the time staring at the shadow-spaces where reality and fantasy merge and play.

His grandmother, James thinks before he finally gives himself over to unconsciousness, would be very disappointed in him, indeed.


End file.
